


Welcome Home

by lemonfizzies



Series: All Bottled Up [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Spoilers - Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonfizzies/pseuds/lemonfizzies
Summary: Stanley struggles to pick up the ruins of his shattered life after Weirdmageddon





	Welcome Home

"Oh, uh, hey....kiddo."  
He knew he shouldn't be here. He didn't know why or how or when, or who the child clinging to his neck really was, but he knew he wasn't supposed to be here.  
His eyes crashed in and out of focus, the light was too bright.  
His knees. They....burned. His joints, elbows and hips, ached in general but his knees were screaming.  
"Eheh...Grunkle Stan?" The child half-pleaded, trying to force him to look at her.  
"Uh...who're ya talking to?"  
He didn't have time to process the doppelganger's appearance, only that it was wearing the wrong clothes; it was an imperfect copy. A boy, retaining her face, stepped in.  
He began to regain feeling, to see more and more of the world....and none of it made any sense together.  
He knew the words individually.  
Trees. Dirt. Sunlight. Smoke. Metal. Children. Glass. Bright. Headache. Burning. Silence.  
He couldn't figure out how they all fit together. And the longer he stared at these children, empty-eyed and slack-jawed, the more hysteric the girl became.  
"Grunkle Stan? C'mon! It's me! It's me, Grunkle Stan!"  
The name, it clanged like a familiar one, and her eyes filled with familiar tears as her double pulled her away. Like a dream object, unable to be named for fear of losing its tangibility, he could not place her in his mind. In his life.  
What was his life? Huh. He knew it just a moment ago. Maybe if he thought about it without thinking about it...He chased half-baked feeling and tried to call them memories, to no avail.  
"We had to erase his mind to defeat Bill. It's all gone."  
It took him a moment to realize he was not standing. He was looking at himself, he was sure of it. This was him but this self moved and spoke on its own. He had the worst sensation of being outside himself, looking in. Except everything was disjointed and the mannerisms were shifted. This was not him but a spitting image, imperfect in its completion.  
"Stan has no idea but he did it. He saved the world. He saved me."  
The image sank to one knee, so it settled at eye-level.  
"You're our HERO, Stanley."  
Familiar, familiar, familiar, he feels pride, old and joyous, a surge in response to the voice of the image. Good job. Good job, Stanley. Good job. I'm so...so happy for you. So, why are you crying? The image shuddered and shook as it embraced him, shaking him in tandem.  
They pulled him to his feet, then, the three angels as one. He decided they were angels. That seemed about right.  
As he walked, the girl insisted on regaling him with tales of their adventures together. The stories spanned three or four months but she spoke as if they'd known each other longer. As he walked, he kept note of who and where and why, attempting to piece together this broken life he apparently left behind. His image never spoke and the boy only piped in occassionally.  
A large structure loomed in the distance, a structure that filled him with dread and longing. A twisting wrench in his gut. He halted at a bottom step, the sight of the walls piercing his heart right through.  
He remembered this place, almost, but he only remembered pain and tragedy and an endless time of isolation. The area stank of regret.  
The angels marched on. The May Bell turned to beckon him in.  
She still held a watery smile. He recognized that smile but not from being on her face. He recognized that feeling. He knew he killed it in himself, long ago. Somehow. For some reason that now escaped him.  
He climbed in after them, every step in this structure a struggle to maintain the blank look he'd adopted on the journey.  
Almost anything was better than having to tell The May Bell no. Better than seeing that watery smile turn to a tear-streaked face again.  
He floundered for an acceptable statement.  
"Hey, nice place you got here."  
The bitter blade of sarcasm slid smoothly into the pockets of his mouth. An old friend. A skill never forgotten.  
The May Bell didn't seem to notice, turning despondent.  
"It's your place, Grunkle Stan."  
The name was wrong, the name was familiar. What did the Mirror angel say? Stan...... Li?  
"Don't you remember, even a little?"  
Dip Ehr had joined the girl, both maintaining a distance normally afforded to live grenades. The gears of Stan Li's mind were grinding to life. There was almost a flicker, nearly a jolt.  
He felt the dread and regret lifting the longer he stayed. There was something else about him, now, something....alive.  
"Nope," Stan felt some spark of personality ignite, "but this chair hugs my butt like it remembers!"  
He laughed at his own joke. He laughed and he * _remembered_ * jokes!  
The May Bell and Dip Ehr weren't laughing, clinging to each other and exchanging worried looks.  
"Ah," Stan faltered, "why the long faces? You guys are acting like it's somebody's funeral."  
The next few moments snapped by in a blur.  
"We saved the world but what's the point? Grunkle Stan's not himself anymore."  
Dip Ehr kicked dust in the corner, yanking the brim of the baseball cap low over his eyes. Something yanked on Stan's heart.  
The May Bell turned to Mirror, pleading, but Stan couldn't focus. All he could hear was the scrape of the boy's sneakers against wood, the huff of his sharp exhalation, and the silent scream that rattled his shoulders and balled fists.  
"I'm sorry."  
Mirror was speaking, his body but not his voice, disentangling The May Bell. Stan thought his heart might be giving out.  
"Stan is gone."  
He was right here! He was here and he could hear them and he was getting tired of being talked about like he was dead.  
Well.  
Maybe he was.  
To them.  
"I know my Grunkle Stan is in there somewhere! There's gotta be something around here to help bring him back!"  
The May Bell flew into a frenzy, tearing up rubble and debris (Stan blinked. Was there always a hole in the wall?) as she searched for some magical object to kickstart Stan's memory.  
Stan Li sat in his Dead Man's Throne and looked at the ruins of what must have been his life.  
He couldn't bear another second. If The May Bell took one more chance, if Mirror pushed falling glasses up the bridge of his nose, if Dip looked at him with the piteous mix of hatred, fear, betrayal, and loss......Stan felt something sinister bubble in his chest. It wasn't * _his_ * fault he couldn't remember. It wasn't like he was doing this on purpose.  
A scrapbook, heavier than it looked, was dropped into his lap. The May Bell clambered up after it. Stan suppressed several grunts and groans. She was speaking. She was trying to show him photos to accompany the stories she'd already told him.  
Stan had it half-memorized, as far as names went, and maintained a fuzzy, loose timeline of the rest. It wasn't like he was stupid. He knew the stories now, not in any intricate detail but he * _knew_ * them from The May Bell's repeated attempts to jam them down his throat.  
The dreamy, hazy quality of the trip immediately ripped away as Stan Li became fully awake and mentally operational for the first time since coming to in the wooded clearing.  
These weren't angels. He wasn't dead. They were friends or, more likely, family clamoring for a man who had vanished, leaving Stan in his stead. Stan has his name and his face and his demeanor but held nothing to give these children or this ghost who escorted them. He could only remind them of the man who died.  
He squirmed under the weight of it. He could never be * _himself_ * again, he was always going to be "Not All The Way Grunkle Stan."  
And The May Belle was going to break.  
The Dip Ehr would be okay, Stan could tell. The boy was angry with him for leaving. Mirror would be....worse but, ultimately, had years that the children didn't. He would be okay, too.  
The May Bell was cracking, each blank stare, every shake of his head was a funerary toll that drove a stake further into her fragile heart.  
Stan oscillated wildly between pity and impatience.  
Then, an animal had jumped up to join the mess, licking his face, smelling like a barnyard and dirt and agitation.  
"Gahh!!" Stan was caught off-guard, assuming the animal would have run away by now. Bitter, bitter sarcasm coated his tongue like a fine glove, well-worn from habitual use. "Quit it, Waddles, I'm trying to remember my life story."  
An invisible force silenced the room. Stan was afraid to move in the stillness.  
"What did you say?"  
Were they deaf? The pig squealed, high-pitched and awful. It was enough to push Stan to the brink of civility.  
"I said get Waddles off of me!"  
That was the stupid creature's name, RIGHT? Had he misremembered? The girl droned on and on about it during the walk...was this a different pig?  
"It's working! Keep reading!"  
What's working? Who?!??  
Stan was suffocating, unable to break free of the trio crowding his once-abjected throne. The pig squealed and ran in circles chasing its own tail, seeming to mock Stan's immobility.  
The man who had, until this moment, remained quietly sobbing in another corner of the room, approached, and Stan nearly snapped. Stay calm. Panic does you no good, here.  
Something told him the best way out was talking. Or lying. There wasn't much a difference at this point.  
The man was pointing at the scrapbook, looking to The May Bell hopefully.  
Oh.  
Stan's adrenaline had kicked in, sharpening his mind and his senses. If they noticed his arms and legs tensing, they said nothing of it.  
He kenw what he needed to do to get these whackos off his case.  
What was the man's name? Some employee of Stan's. The May Bell had mentioned it earlier....he snuck a glance at the scrapbook. Soos? Odd...but no matter. If he didn't get some air, soon, Stan was going to start swinging no matter who was in the way. Children included.  
Mustering his best salesman's grin, Stan flashed a knowing wink towards the man who had approached.  
"Hey, just because I have amnesia, don't go trying to give yourself a raise, Soos!"  
It worked like a charm. The family exchanged overjoyed glances, and everyone backed up slightly. There was no need to press the stories in. "Grunkle Stan" was back once more.  
Stan Li no longer needed to mask his face, as they all focused on each other and their relief and their gratitude and their victory. The smile on his face dropped to a grimace.

  
By the time of the birthday party, Stan was falling into a routine that felt all too familiar. Smile, nod, pop a bottle, smile, recycle some observation about clothes or heights or cars, and move on. So long as he didn't speak for too long with any single person, he could keep the charade going. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up with it all. The congratulations, the admonishments, the insistence that he tell the story of how he saved the world. The story of the apocalypse was always diverted to the niece or nephew or twin, though Stan avoided the latter like the plague. Brainiac was a somber figure, holstering several weapons and giving off an air of grizzled wisdom. Stan knew Brainiac would see through his charade in a heartbeat and so only saw him for a few brief conversations since he began to "remember" his life.  
Of course Stan hadn't. And he was looking for the first opportunity to disappear. He couldn't do this, couldn't stay with these people who believed him only an echo of who he used to be. It would only hurt all of them in the long run.  
Stan found a host of dates, names, and events beginning to rattle around in his head, with room to spare. It was like a novel, or a movie. Recite the lines. Remember the sequence of events. Laugh when prompted.  
Stan had learned plenty about himself since that day. He learned he was good at reading people. He was funny but very few folks appreciated his brand of humor. He was good at remembering faces but not names. He didn't always understand what was going on but he could lie through almost anything with ease.  He had bad knees and he was right-handed. Oh, and his intuition was off the charts.  
"Stan Li, I need to talk to you."  
Brainiac had a habit of addressing him by his full name, which made him all the more intimidating. Stan floundered for an excuse to remain with the crowd but he figured it would only draw unwanted attention in the end. He had a bad feeling about this, a feeling that only worsened when his twin led him behind the building and into an isolated area.  
Brainiac regarded Stan with a brooding and pensive gaze, on which remained the only type of look Stan could not decipher on the man. On other people, this look meant that you had hurt them. Stan could not remember hurting his twin. Unless...  
Before Stan could apologize for avoiding him, making up some excuse for why, Brainiac spoke.  
"I didn't wanna say anything with everyone listening but we have a problem."  
Stan swallowed. No kidding. Brainiac knew. He knew he knew he knew. The whole time? How long? Fireworks exploded in Stan's gut as he struggled to maintain a cool exterior.  
"Weirdmageddon has been contained but I'm detecting some strange new anomalies near the Arctic Ocean."  
Stan blinked. What in the actual fuck did any of that mean? Was this it? He didn't remember any of this from the scrapbook. Stan had hoped he'd be out of here by the time someone asked about something before summer. Why now? So close?  
"I want to go investigate it but I don't think I can do it alone."  
Huh? Stan had to think on his feet. He'd only get one chance to pull this off. Cue the salesman's grin.  
"Are you saying you're looking for someone to sail around the world with you in the adventure of a lifetime?"  
Stan wondered if the grin was simply his default expression. It felt...safer. Easier to maintain than the blank stares and poker faces. He could grimace or wince if he wanted and it would be difficult to distinguish.  
Brainiac reached into the lining flap and pulled something from his coat. Stan repressed the urge to break his hand. Why did he think the guy was going to pull a gun, anyway?

As the item was presented, Stan lost the sense of what words were spoken.  
His twin was holding a photograph. Stan couldn't breathe.  
Something about it kicked him someplace deep and dark. Hatred.  
Pure, raw hatred had boiled over. Stan nearly ripped the photo in half where he stood. Why did this make him angry. It was merely him and Brainiac, working together on a landlocked boat. Innocent enough but some dead piece of himself reacted violently to it. The grin became strained. Brainiac spoke again.  
"Will you give me a second chance?"  
Stan reeled, laughing out of habit, not out of glee.  
"Do you think we'll find treasure? And babes??" Stan quipped.  
"Heh, I think there's a high probability!"  
Something about the twin's voice shoved all else from his mind. The condescension? No... then, what? Stan's hatred remained but was now joined by gnawing guilt. The remaining hours passed in a blur, a muscle-memory performance.  
Stan would not go on this boat. Stan could not confine himself to close quarters with this man, locked in by water. No way in Hell.  
The children waved from a bus window. His twin's hand weighed heavy on his shoulder.  
Time to get a fake ID. Mod that junker of a car. Sneak out of town while Brainiac snored on the couch. Would the guy come after him? Maybe. Stan knew what to do, in any case. How or why, he couldn't say. Muscle memory. De ja vu. Whatever.  
He just knew it felt familiar. It felt safe, leaving like this. And, as he started up the muffled engine, double checked the duffel bag in the back seat, triple-checked the handgun and brass knuckles in the glove box, Stan Li sighed. Everything in its place. Everything where it should be. So why did he feel like he was forgetting something back in the house?  
Then again, if he forgot about it....it must not be important.

  
Gravel kicked up under the wheels, the light of the moon baptizing him a new man with a new, familiar life.  
Welcome, Stanfred Pinesol (Stan would have to remind himself to respond to that, now that it was emblazoned on his ID), to the open road.  
The dice swung lazily in the mirror. Stan flicked on the radio.  
Welcome home.

**Author's Note:**

> You Know I Had To Do It To Him :)c


End file.
